


Until I Believe

by rainstormdragon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist powers used for recreational purposes, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Cabin, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Comfort No Hurt, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Give Martin the love he deserves, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessiveness, Post-Coital Cuddling, Romance, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Tenderness, bed sharing, i think, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainstormdragon/pseuds/rainstormdragon
Summary: A very soft and loving smut scene taking place pre-Apocalypse during the Scottish safehouse period. Martin wants Jon to use his Compelling powers on him. Jon does his best to give Martin his fantasy.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 524





	Until I Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Because possessive Jon is the best Jon and both of them deserve good things. Thanks to @bloodscout for the beta!

Jon had been lingering in the sort of sleep he was becoming better at falling into-- dozing lightly enough that he was not pulled into dreams of other people’s fears. Sometimes he could spend an entire night dozing and waking sporadically, though most nights he slipped into a deeper sleep phase at least once. Tonight, with the sound of rain on the cabin roof and the occasional rumble of thunder outside, he had been hoping the sounds would tether him to consciousness. However, it had not been the rain or the thunder that had woken him. 

There was no one watching to see it, but Jon smiled achingly softly. Martin had turned over in his sleep and wrapped an arm around him, nestling his face into Jon’s neck. Jon stroked the larger man’s hair gently. He shut his eyes and let the regular rhythm of Martin’s breathing and the solid warmth of his closeness soothe him. Even after a week in the cabin, sharing the small space with increasing comfort, it still felt like a novelty. Jon traced his fingers repeatedly over the seams of the quilt, feeling the texture -- a happy stim he felt safe indulging in at times like this. 

He’d matched his breathing to Martin’s instinctively, which was why he noticed so quickly when his breathing became quicker and shallower. Jon waited, listened. When it became clear that Martin was not waking up, but dreaming, he gently touched his boyfriend’s face. 

“Martin. It’s a dream.”

“Mmm?” Martin turned his face into Jon’s hand with a soft moan. 

“Only a dream. You’re here with me. Safe.”

“Jon.” His eyelids fluttered and he half opened his eyes. “Woss’ wrong?”

“Nothing, love. You were having another nightmare.”

“Wasn’t.” Martin snuggled closer. “Was dreaming ‘bout you.”

“... oh.” Jon felt his cheeks warm slightly. “In that case, I apologize. For waking you from it.”

“Real you’s better. The barista doesn’t keep interrupting.” 

Jon swallowed a chuckle. “Does this mean that in your dream we were… _doing something,_ in a coffee shop?” he asked, genuinely curious. 

Martin made another muffled sleepy noise, sighed, and reached under the covers to adjust himself in his pyjama pants. “No. The barista had followed us into the museum.”

**“We were in a museum?”**

“Mmhmm. You had me pressed against the wall next to an exhibit on whales and you were using that voice on me.” There was a pause. “Jon, are you using the voice on me now?”

“Er, not on purpose. Maybe just the smallest bit, by accident?” He had occasionally struggled to modulate tones in his voice even before he’d become an avatar, and though he knew Basira, for instance, thought he was just careless about it, he really did try not to compel his friends and coworkers when he asked a question. 

Instead of the indignation Jon had expected, Martin moaned. “Fuck,” he breathed. 

“I’m sorry, I--” Jon stopped his apology in mid sentence. “Wait, you had a _good_ dream, a dream that made you aroused, where I was using the voice on you?”

He could actually hear Martin swallow hard. “Ah. Yes. In my defense, you can be very intense when you’re being the Archivist, and I am very gay.”

“... I see.” Jon took a moment to consider the implications and possibilities of Martin’s confession. He bit his lip, trailed one finger down Martin’s cheek. 

“Love, no offense, but would you actually want me to compel you? I can’t promise the reality of it would be enjoyable. It usually doesn’t seem to be. It might be the sort of thing that’s better off staying a fantasy.”

Martin squirmed slightly. “Er, maybe, if it was about something, I dunno, not awful and creepy. I think it’s the whole commanding thing that does it for me, honestly. Your eyes go all … and the idea of my body obeying without stopping to check with my mind, just telling you anything you wanted to know. I guess it’s a bit kinky, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s … very flattering, that you would place so much trust in me.” Jon leaned forward and kissed Martin, and his boyfriend sighed into the kiss, pulling their bodies flush so that Jon could feel the other man’s arousal. 

“Could we try a bit?” Martin asked, his breath and voice a bit rough. “I won’t hold it against you if it doesn’t, you know, work out. Unpredictable eldritch powers and all.”

Jon smiled. “If you’re certain. We need a way you can tell me you want me to let you stop talking, if you’re not able to stop speaking long enough to ask. What would be ... ?”

“I could tap your wrist or something,” Martin suggested after a moment of thought. 

“All right. Three taps means stop. Can you remember that?”

“Yeah, that’s easy enough.”

“Is there anything you’d rather I didn’t ask about? I assume for the best effect I should elicit sexual confessions, but I don’t want to make you talk about things you’d rather not discuss, or that would ruin the moment for you.” Jon ran his fingers through Martin’s hair, trying to convey with voice and touch how deep his need to protect the other man went. 

“Sex, yeah. Intimate things. Nothing about my childhood, or sex with anyone but you. Nothing about Institute business or the fears.”

“Of course.” They kissed again, and when their mouths parted this time. Jon kept his eyes closed for a moment, considering how to begin. Probably best to start out by learning a bit more about what it was Martin wanted.

**“Tell me, when you fantasize about me, what am I doing to you?”** he asked, letting the compulsion resonate through his voice. He felt Martin shudder. Pure arousal, if he was guessing correctly. 

“Everything.” Martin’s words came out quick and fervent. “God, Jon, I think about your hands on me, those long gorgeous fingers of yours holding me still, forcing me to look you in the eye, wrapping around my cock. I think about how demanding you can be sometimes, what it would be like to have all that demand and focus concentrated on me, drawing pleasure out of me. I-- I imagine you having me do things. Telling me to pleasure myself, or you. Teasing me, a little, for how badly I want it, making me wait and then giving it to me. I want you to pin me to a wall or hold me down on the bed and make me confess all my secrets to you, want you to know me inside and out and then take me because I’m yours now.”

Jon’s mouth opened silently, his breath coming fast. He had not anticipated how deeply stirring this confession would be. Martin continued to speak.

“I want you to leave marks on me. I don’t care if they’re hickies or bite marks or bruises from holding onto me too tightly, I just want to look at my skin and _see_ the memory of you touching me. I want you to tell me how much you want me over and over until I actually believe it deep down. I want you to take me apart and put me back together again.”

**“Martin.”** Jon gazed at him, overwhelmed and feeling a possessive heat rising in his chest. He crushed Martin to him and pressed his teeth hard into the soft flesh of his neck until Martin gasped and arched against him and Jon could feel the other man’s cock throbbing and leaking through his pants. When he felt certain he’d left a dark bruise, he laved the bite with his tongue. **“You are mine,”** he whispered. **“No one and nothing can have you but me. You are everything I want and need.”**

Martin’s breathing hitched, and his hands clenched tightly in the fabric of Jon’s shirt for a moment. Jon grazed his lips in a trail up Martin’s throat, tongue darting out to taste a rough patch of stubble, a drop of sweat. Martin _mewled,_ that was the only way to describe the sound. Jon buried his fingers in Martin’s hair and gave a firm tug. 

**“Look at me.”** He could barely even see Martin’s face in the darkness, but he didn’t need to. He Knew Martin was looking at him with helpless, bare need written across his face. He knew it in the sound of his breath and the tension in his body and in other, darker ways that he could not explain and had no desire to examine. **“Perfect. Gorgeous. Tell me who you belong to.”**

“You,” Martin breathed. “Yours. I belong to you, Jon.” 

Not the Archivist, not the Beholding, but to him, to Jon _._ He clutched that bit of knowledge close to his heart to gloat over in secret. As much as Martin felt the pull of Jon’s power as an avatar, it was the man he had given himself to.

Jon made himself focus on the present moment, on what Martin had confessed he wanted. To feel vulnerable, needed, pleasured, in his control. He swallowed.

 **“I want you to lick your hand, get it wet, and use it to stroke yourself. Slow, steady strokes. Do not let yourself come until I tell you to.”** He had no power to compel actions, only words, so he let the force of his voice come through even heavier without worrying that it would be too much. On an impulse, Jon firmly grasped Martin’s wrist and brought that hand to Martin’s mouth for him to lick. The small, wet sounds were loud in the dark room. Jon released his wrist and Martin fumbled under the covers, took his cock in hand and made the most delicious broken moan as he began slowly pumping it. 

**“That’s right. You’re so lovely to watch. And you’re mine. Let me hear you. Make yourself feel good for me.”**

Martin groaned loudly, continuing his slow, even strokes. 

**“What does it feel like to know I’m watching you right now?”**

“Like everything is twice as intense because you’re seeing it,” Martin whispered. “Like it must be weird for you? It still doesn’t feel real that you want to.” 

**“How could anyone see this and not want you?”** Jon held the power in his voice even as he spoke softly, reverently. **“Tell me another secret, Martin. Tell me something you’d let me do to you that you’ve never done.”**

“S-so many things, pretty much any--”

Jon quickly realized the mistake in his wording and interrupted. **“Something that you would enjoy, not just allow. Something you want but haven’t felt like you could tell anyone you wanted before. What would you ask for if you weren’t ashamed?”**

“I’d ask you to bend me over your desk and rim me until I cried. Oh, _fuck._ I--” Martin sounded mortified at his own words even as the thought of it made him thrust hard into his own fist. 

**“That’s it, that’s good. No secrets, not from me,”** Jon praised him, softening his grip on Martin’s hair. He knew he was being greedy, pushing hard, and wasn’t sure any more how much of the way he thrilled at Martin’s revelation of each secret fantasy was his own and how much was fueled by the Beholding’s thirst to Know. He pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead and spoke words that he knew were only his. “You giving me this, trusting me with this, is a privilege. Nothing you say will ever make me do anything but love you more for sharing it with me.”

“God, Jon. Oh, God,” Martin sobbed out. “I love you.” Jon watched him force himself to slow his strokes, his entire body shaking with the need for release, and just held him and breathed with him as he struggled for control. 

“So beautiful,” Jon whispered fervently. “So sweet. I don’t deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”

“Jon.” Martin’s lips shaped his name almost soundlessly on an exhalation that he felt more than heard, hand moving with torturous slowness over his aching length. 

“Do you prefer to top or bottom?” Jon asked.

“Ohgod. But I thought you didn’t--”

John clucked his tongue reproachfully. “I said, **Do you prefer to top or bottom?”**

“Top, but I’d be happy any way I could have you,” Martin blurted out, then breathed hard for a moment. “Jon, I thought you didn’t like--”

 **“Trust me. I will do nothing I don’t want to. Stop stroking and tease the head lightly with your thumb.”** That brought another gorgeous sound as Martin obeyed. **“Keep doing that. Wait for me. Do not come until I tell you.”**

Jon rose from the bed and padded to the bathroom in his socks to retrieve from the drawer the lotion he’d seen there the other day. Daisy had not been one for fancy skin products, so it was the sort of basic, unscented lotion that shouldn’t cause any sort of irritation for the use he had in mind. He retrieved it, returned to the bed, and stripped off his pyjama trousers before he got in. Martin was right that Jon didn’t prefer any sort of penetration, giving or receiving; they’d discussed his boundaries in detail days ago. However, there were ways around them which Martin apparently had not thought of. 

**“If you could fuck me,”** Jon asked Martin, using the crude word precisely and intentionally and hearing Martin’s intake of breath in response, **“How would you do it, in your fantasies?”** As he spoke, he rubbed the lotion thickly over the insides of his upper thighs.

“Tangled up together, holding you, kissing you and pushing into you over and over until we both came,” Martin whispered. “Holding you so close. Touching you.”

**“Come here,”** Jon ordered. **“Like that was what we were about to do.”** When Martin lowered himself over Jon, shaking, their bodies aligned, Jon pressed his thighs together around the tip of Martin’s cock. **“Now thrust. Kiss me and hold me close and don’t stop until you’ve come.”**

“Jon. Jon!” Martin thrust hard between his thighs, choking out his name like a prayer. Jon held him tightly and kissed him, drinking in every gasp and every helpless sound of pleasure. He remembered Martin’s words-- _tell me how much you want me over and over until I actually believe it deep down--_ and tried to channel every bit of love he felt for Martin into his touch, his kiss. “I want you. You’re mine,” he whispered in his own voice.

Martin spilled over his thighs with a breathless cry and Jon pressed kisses to his sweat-damp skin and the racing pulse in his temple, repeating those words under his breath. I want you. You’re mine. 

“That was … my god. Jon.” Martin let go of Jon to roll onto his back, still breathing hard, heat radiating from his skin. 

“Did I break you?” Jon asked, bringing one of Martin’s hands to his lips, reluctant to stop kissing him. He suspected his smile was audible in his voice. 

“I may never recover.”

Jon silently debated whether to go clean up or stay in bed and see if his partial erection could be encouraged into something Martin would be interested in helping out with. In the end, the sensory unpleasantness of lotion and drying semen on his thighs and another person’s sweat on the rest of him settled the issue. He took several minutes to clean himself with a washcloth, soap, and water before returning to the warm bed. It was not a terribly romantic ending to their activities, so he was as quick about it as he could be and hurried back to the warm bed with another washcloth for Martin to use if he liked. 

Martin used it, then melted into his arms as if he’d never left. He was all warm, soft curves to Jon’s spindly angles and edges. “The things you said,” he whispered. “D’you mean all that? It’s all right if you didn’t, I understand, just--”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t lie to you,” Jon said, perhaps a little more sharply than he intended. “I... sorry, Martin. Of course I meant it. Every word of it. You are … so much, to me.” Somehow it had been easier to find words when Martin had been the vulnerable one, filled with raw animal need that Jon had had the power to feed and soothe. Now, he felt himself grow more anxious about being misunderstood or saying something wrong. Was what he had already said too much, or … or strange? He swallowed his insecurities and sought out the words he had used only minutes before. “I want you. You’re mine.”

Martin’s only audible response was a shuddering breath as he hugged Jon tighter, squeezing the breath out of him for a moment with that surprising strength he showed sometimes. Jon made an undignified noise, but did not resist. Being held too tightly was _good_ , comforting, made something small and fragile inside him uncurl and relax slightly. 

“I want this with you,” Martin said softly. “Whatever else happens, God knows we’re not in control of our lives anymore. Just say we’ll have this. Say we can come home to each other’s arms.”

Jon thought of the second-floor flat that held his books and clothes, of his office in the Archives that he had spent so many nights sleeping in, of this narrow cabin with too few electrical outlets and a kettle with a jarring whistle that made him squeeze his eyes shut. None of them was a place he belonged, not like this. “You’re my home,” he said, and was rewarded with another squeeze. “We’ll have this. We’ll fight for it, if we have to. Will you … keep holding me like this?”

“Always.” Martin pulled Jon closer, tucked him against his body, and held him so tightly that it ached in the best possible way. Jon made a soft sound of bliss, and his fingers found the quilt seam again, traced it over and over as he sank into a state of quiet, perfect contentment.


End file.
